


Command Presence

by azurejay (andchimeras)



Category: Southland
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, BDSM, Breathplay, Cameras, Consent Play, Crying, Episode Related, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, F/M, Gen, M/M, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-20
Updated: 2012-05-20
Packaged: 2017-11-05 16:30:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andchimeras/pseuds/azurejay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Making someone do something they want to do doesn't make you a cop." S2, sometime soon after 2.03, "U-Boat."</p><p>(It has an ending. It's just missing orgasms. Sorry!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Command Presence

**Author's Note:**

> The unfinished bit is the second half of the scene in the story. There is an ending.

In the parking lot after shift change, you say something to her; the set of her mouth tells you she thinks it's the wrong thing, but you're right. You know you're right. You know how to read a cop. She breathes in hard through her nose and points her finger at you.

"You wanna see my command presence?" she asks, eyes hard.

You shake your head and turn away from her. "You're losing it, Brown," you say, but she catches your arm.

"Come home with me," she says. You look over your shoulder at her, eyebrows raised. She's pissed, and it just makes her look even more fragile.

"I don't roll your way," you say, a twist of meanness just because you can. You jerk your arm to break her hold, but she doesn't let go.

In fact, her grip tightens, and you frown. She says, "Not for--you're a moron," and rolls her eyes. "There's something I want you to see, Coop."

Your cop nickname. You narrow your eyes at her. She clenches her jaw and tilts her head and smiles a tight, challenging smile, not showing her teeth.

"I'll follow you," you say, and she nods sharply and lets you go.

 

You almost turn off her tail and drive home six times, but there was something in her that looked like the steel she's been missing for years. The hard, forged strength of her you saw in the girl she was so long ago.

You turn up her driveway and she's already got the driver's door open. She steps out, her hair long and wavy around her face, past her shoulders. She looks like a teenager in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, her duffle slung up on her good shoulder. She slams her door shut and her car thunks and beeps and flashes its lights at you. She walks to her porch, straight-backed, without looking to see if you're still following.

She leaves the front door standing open, and you enter with the caution of long years, looking both ways into the dark--the vague shapes of furniture and negative space suggesting her familiar living room--before calling her name.

"You want a beer?" she calls back, from the rear of the house, bright yellow light flaring into the dark hallway. Tristan must be at her sister's--he usually is, when she's on nights.

You hit the wall switch and her living room lights up low with a couple of lamps in the corners. Romantic. "What do you think?" you answer. A second later, you hear her laugh and smile to yourself.

She comes to the room with two bottles of Bud--you wince, but take the one she holds out to you--and a DVD case tucked between her elbow and her ribs. She smiles at you, still tense, still upset, but she bends easily to put her beer on the coffee table, and to put the DVD in her player.

She perches on the edge of her comfortable green corduroy couch and looks up at you, remote control held in both hands between her knees. "Please sit down, John," she says, and nods encouragingly.

You sit, your untouched beer sweating in your hand. She turns her face to the TV, an older one, just like yours, none of this flat screen plasma ray bullshit. You keep watching her as she presses buttons, blue light and then white and then the bright colourplay of a moving picture over her face.

"Ben," she says, but she doesn't say anything, the voice is coming from the TV.

Your gaze snaps to the screen just as you hear Ben say, "Yes, ma'am."

The grainy digital image shows only the edge of a bed with a blue duvet on it, and the corner of a white dresser.

"Take your mark, Ben," her voice says firmly, and a biscuit-coloured smudge steps into frame and drops down, white blur of underwear, and then Ben's face, eyes and mouth clamped shut, shoulders cement-stiff, shirtless.

"Thank you," she says.

Ben's mouth works for a moment, and then he says, "You're welcome, ma'am."

Beside you on the couch, she's watching the screen intently, leaning forward a bit, hands clasped around the remote between her knees.

"What--" you say, even though you know, and she turns her head without taking her eyes off the screen.

"Just shut up and watch, John," she says, because she knows you know, because after she got off probation the two of you talked about being the one in control and how you're both maybe into that, sometimes, with the right person.

"Open your eyes, Ben," she says on the TV, and you look back. It takes a few seconds, but Ben finally ducks his chin and opens his eyes, looking up at something off-screen.

"Thank you," she says, and her familiar, capable hand reaches for his face. He flinches, but she curves her fingers around his chin and lifts his face until it's square to the camera.

"You're welcome, ma'am," he says, and sways toward the lack of her touch when she takes her hand away. His eyes stay up-turned, like a saint.

"I know you know our time together today is a different kind of special," she says.

"Yes, ma'am," he says, with a pained little twitch of his mouth.

"Special for a lot of reasons," she says, her voice moving away, Ben's eyes moving as he tracks her. "Mostly because today you're going to do something really hard, something you've told me scares the hell out of you."

His forehead creases into a frown and his eyes narrow. He's thinking. You blink, realizing: there's a list of things he's told her scare the hell out of him; even across the time and space made manifest by the video you're watching, his presence and his fear taste good to you.

There's a jingle of metal off-screen, and his neck straightens, his face smooths in familiar defense.

"You're going to suck my cock," she says.

"Yes, ma'am," he says, eyes tracking upwards again.

"Even though you're headshy," she says, her voice near again, firm and soothing at once. "Even though you're terrified of choking."

"Yes, ma'am," he says, swallowing hard.

"Because you want to. Don't you, Ben?"

His eyes drop to level and he doesn't say anything.

"Ben."

"Yes, ma'am, I want to," he says, voice creaking.

A pause, and his face creases with reluctance. "Yes," he says, pink blooming in his cheeks, down his neck. "I want to. I want. To suck your cock. Ma'am."

Beside you, she sighs with satisfaction, and you wonder if she's doing it on the TV, too, too low for the camera's microphone to pick up.

"Thank you, Ben," she says on-screen.

"You're welcome, ma'am," he says, still blushing and pained.

"I know you're scared I'm going to make you beg," she says, and he frowns a bit. "And I want you to be scared, but I don't want you to be scared of that--" his eyes track back and forth and squint, he's trying to untangle her intentions; he's _so good_ \--"so I'm telling you now: I'm not going to make you beg for it. Not this time."

He relaxes fractionally; if he was wearing his uniform, pulled up straight and tucked in tight, you wouldn't even see the infinitesimal loosening of his shoulders. His mouth tilts up at one corner, a sweet precursor of a smile, of the future she's promising, of "not this time."

"Thank you, ma'am," he says, and she must do something, he must see something to trigger the bright sun-eyed grin he gives her, turned up to her like he's offering her a gift in his cupped palms.

You look over at her again and she's smiling a gentle, affectionate smile, somewhere in between the way she smiles at her son, and the way she smiled at her ex before he was ex.

You dump a swallow of Bud down your throat and unclench your free hand, deliberately. She turns her head to the movement of your bottle, the smile changing to something more distant. Not quite the friendly, nostalgic, trusting smile you usually get.

She says, "Are you--"

"I'm fine," you say, and look back at the screen. Ben's jaw and neck are locked up tight, and the head of a cream-coloured dildo is moving over his cheek. His eyes are wide and anxious, staring upwards, not exactly saint-like anymore.

"Open your mouth," she says. His eyelashes flutter, but he gives no other response, and her hand comes in to frame; she brushes her fingertips over his forehead, over both of his cheeks. "Open your mouth, Ben," she says again, her voice hard in warning, familiar. His jaw twitches, he almost shakes his head, almost actually backs away, and then she pinches his nose shut with her thumb and forefinger.

He stares up at her, silently, motionless, for long seconds. You find yourself holding your breath too, the weight growing in your chest, quickly because your abdomen is constantly compressed by the brace, the back of your throat burning just as he twitches, blinks rapidly. You let your breath go. A hard, animal noise comes from behind his teeth, and he jerks back, but she's there.

She steps closer, her pale flank stripped at the hip and diagonally across her thigh by the dark purple, leather straps of the dildo harness. She brings her centre of gravity in, gives herself more leverage. His shoulders come up, like he's ready to raise his hands--you wonder, sharply, your heart racing, if he's bound or cuffed or otherwise restrained; you want to know; you want to see if he's that good--she puts her other hand around the back of his head and holds him close, the dildo bumping his chin reproachfully.

The next noise is high and desperate--pure panic. His hand, golden and blunt and free, rests on her thigh, between the straps, and his fingers dig in. Your hands are clutching too--around your sweaty beer bottle, and into your own thigh--for purchase, not to hurt.

"Open your mouth," she demands loudly, as he jerks his head between her hands, back and forth, like he's already fucking his face on her cock. "Open your mouth! You're embarrassing me, Ben! Open."

He stops, still, and his hand comes off her thigh, hovering in the air, fingers spread wide.

His inhale is a short, nasal gasp, and then her fingers are off his nose, and the next breath is long and deep, and then he coughs. She leaves one hand on the back of his head--the hand on the far side, so the camera can see his red, tear-streaked, wet-mouthed face as he leans his forehead into her thigh, away from her cock. His hand comes back to her, but he cups the back of her thigh, and he doesn't dig in.

You let your next breath out slow, in a trickle, and inhale a steady, calm stream. The marks of his fingertips between the straps are red and beautiful and already fading.

On the couch beside you, she sighs, and you glance over to see her leaning her chin in her hand, watching with a faint, concerned frown. She's uncomfortable with what she just did, on the TV, and you're okay with that. She should be. Excessive force. Taking his breath away for a little while, a few times, probably would've produced compliance in a less violent manner.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, I'm sorry," he's gasping, and she's petting his sweaty hair away from his forehead, as much as the regs brushcut will allow.

"It's all right, baby, it's all right," she says, low-voiced, but clear enough for the camera's microphone.

"Let me," he says, pulling away from her, and that's his focused face, his determined voice. "Ma'am. I'm ready now; I can do it. I want to, ma'am." You're almost expecting him to actually ask, to say _please_ , but you remember the way begging was an extra terror she needed to reassure him wouldn't come knocking. You want to see the tape from the day she made him beg--or the day she makes him, if she hasn't yet. You want to close your fingers in his hair with fierce pride, just like she's doing, and stroke your hand down his cheek, careful not to wipe away the drying tear tracks, just like she's doing.

Her hand goes from his face to her cock, and he opens his mouth halfway, and closes his eyes tight, breathing in hard through his nose.

"Where are your hands, Ben?" she asks, and he snatches his hand away from her thigh; you're sorry to see it go, but not sorry to see the brief, rueful smirk on his face, his eyes still closed. She laughs, on the TV, and gently beside you.

"He's supposed to keep his hands--" she says in a low voice, and you snap, "Yeah, I got it, thanks." You can see her look over at you in your excellent peripheral vision. You don't react. You're not jealous.

He's shaking. Her hand and her thigh are steady as she presses the head of her cock against his lower lip. She touches his forehead with her other hand, runs her fingers through his hair, around the outside of his ear, and leaves her hand hanging easily at her side. He opens by fractions and she keeps moving forward, inexorably, taking up every bit of space he gives, until his teeth are parted enough she can slip in between them.

He makes a noise and shudders and looks up at her, eyes shining and showing white all around the iris.

"You're going to take all of it," she says, as if she's telling him to get face-down on the ground and spread his arms to the sides.

He closes his eyes and shudders again, and she puts her free hand firmly and deliberately on the back of his head, casting an unfortunate shadow over his face. 

 

\---

 

A slight hesitation, a long blink, his voice unsure, but not quite questioning: "Yes, ma'am."

"Who, Ben?"

"Ma'am," he says, face creasing like he's looking at something he doesn't like and can't fix.

"You said you'd do this," she says, spreading her hands. _This is your situation_ , those hands say, _deal with it_. You want to laugh at those hands.

His gaze flicks to the camera for the first time and in that split second of eye contact you're jolted from amusement to the feeling you've been caught at something dirty and embarrassing. Well.

He opens his mouth and takes a deep breath and on the exhale, he says, "John." He squints up at her and says, "John Cooper." He winces, like he wants to take it back. You just want him to say it again.

"Thank you, Ben," she says, and he replies automatically, "You're welcome, ma'am," sounding stunned himself, and you put your bottle on the table and stand up, swallowing the noise your back sends up to your throat.

She stands too, as you're taking the five feet from her couch to her door. "John," she says.

"Making somebody do something they want to do doesn't make you a cop," you say, on autopilot, still hearing your name in his voice, the sound coarse and rusty and full of the sweetest reluctance.

"No," she says, looking at your feet on her floor and your hand on her door--looking at the blue screen of her TV and the remote in her hand. She looks at your half-gone beer on her coffee table for a long time, and then she looks at you again, eyebrows raised. "No, John, it doesn't."

 

End.


End file.
